


shining, my ray of light

by theshoutingslytherin



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Recovery, Romance, i throw spaghetti at a wall and call it fic asmr, these bitches gay!! good for them!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25664134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshoutingslytherin/pseuds/theshoutingslytherin
Summary: “Good morning,” he signs, clearer this time. Barney’s hand, still interlocked with Gordon’s, moves with it.“Welcome back to the land of the living. Want breakfast?”Gordon’s mouth splits in a jaw-cracking yawn. “Pancakes?” He asks.“Whatever you want,” Barney says.
Relationships: Barney Calhoun/Gordon Freeman
Comments: 18
Kudos: 144





	shining, my ray of light

**Author's Note:**

> lads i dont fuckin know. this is like the second sap fic i've written in a row, quarantine got me yearning big time.
> 
> blame this on my friend Eevee and on the half life whole ass server in general. title is from City and Colour's _Lover Come Back_ , as per usual. art is by aforementioned Eevee, and from the talented Bee, both whom stole my bones with their adorable art :'3c
> 
> -gestures to this jumble of words in a trench coat masquerading as a fic- welcome to the shitshow

Sun’s got a head start on the morning, and Barney’s got half a mind to close the blinds and forget the concept of _mornings_ altogether when Gordon starts stirring in the sheets.

There was a point in time where Barney had been sure they’d never have this: light dribbling honey-warm over the blankets, picking out the hints of auburn in Gordon’s hair. No sirens, no raids, no battles fought and won (or lost). Jesus. It’s still surreal, turning it over the way laundry tumbles in the dryer. Which is another thing they have now-- no more snapping wet clothes over a makeshift line, hedging a Combine ambush.

It’s nice. _Domestic._

It takes his goddamn breath away.

“Mornin’ sleepy head,” Barney whispers when his lungs stop seizing. Something in this moment has frozen in him, a snapshot framed in amber: one half of Gordon’s face smashed into his pillow, a few rogue curls standing at attention; watery light echoing off his glasses where they sit, patient, on the bedside table; olive wallpaper alive with dappled shadows; their rumpled sheets; Gordon, Gordon, Gordon.

Gordon blinks up at him, still drugged with sleep, and forms an aborted, unintelligible sign. His hand flops back down in the space between them; Barney slots his own underneath so their palms touch, winds his fingers through Gordon’s and brings their joined hands to his mouth to press reverent kisses against each knuckle.

That ever-present wrinkle in Gordon’s forehead softens. “Good morning,” he signs, clearer this time. Barney’s hand, still interlocked with Gordon’s, moves with it.

“Welcome back to the land of the living. Want breakfast?”

Gordon’s mouth splits in a jaw-cracking yawn. “Pancakes?” He asks.

“Whatever you want,” Barney says, dawn-soft in the space between them. Nevermind that he’d contemplated sleeping in two minutes ago. Every second spent with Gordon is a blessing he can’t miss-- not after the twenty years they’ve lost already.

_Never again,_ Barney swears to himself. Fervent, sparking deep and violent at the very core of him. _Never again._

Gordon’s looking at him with eyes so gentle it’s a wonder they don’t melt right off his face. “And french toast,” he tacks on, like he’s not a thoughtful bastard who _knows_ that’s Barney’s favorite.

Barney pushes his shoulder anyway. “What am I, a bed and breakfast?”

Gordon grins, unrepentant. It lights up his whole face, lips parting from teeth, mischief dancing at the corners of his eyes. Makes Barney want to kiss the stupid thing right off him, taste some of that giddy joy pulsing thick through the air between them.

And since he wants to-- he does.

Barney shuffles forward, hampered by the sheets, one side of his mouth already curling up. Easy enough to untangle their hands so he can catch the back of Gordon’s neck, bring him even closer-- Barney sighs, ducking to catch his lips against Gordon’s cupid’s bow. A slow, warm buzz rises up from where their lips meet; Barney releases him only to latch onto Gordon’s lower lip this time, coaxing up a languid rhythm.

One of Gordon’s hands tangles itself in Barney’s hair, the other coming up to frame his jaw. Fingers pressing into the space behind his ear. Gordon’s breath comes in little puffs; Barney would laugh at him, remind him to breathe through his nose, but he’s too busy swiping his tongue against Gordon’s, curling his arm around loose shoulders.

It’s morning-stale, sleep still heavy in their mouths, but it’s quiet. Peaceful.

Perfect.

They slide apart after an indeterminable amount of time. Barney tilts his head so their noses brush, Gordon’s breath washing over his cheek, and they stay like that for another, smaller eternity.

“Fine,” Barney says after a beat, somewhat breathless. “Pancakes _and_ french toast. But only ‘cause you’re such a good kisser.”

Gordon answers him with a lighter peck to the corner of his lips, smugness radiating from the crinkle in his nose, and begins the herculean task of extricating himself from their sheets.

* * *

They’d picked green wallpaper for both the bedroom and the kitchen when they bought this place, and neither of them had commented on the way it matched the deep hue of Xen’s broken jungles. That hadn’t been the point, anyway-- there was something meditative in the vibrancy that had attracted them both, and months of living here haven’t changed that. Barney’s pulse, still kicking, always kicking, settles when his eyes track across the walls; doesn’t hurt that the timid beams of this morning have morphed into a steady, golden spotlight, swarming with dust motes.

Gordon helps with breakfast. Always does, no matter how much Barney urges him to sit down. Just another part of the routine they’ve settled into, now that they have lives to form routines in again.

Barney flicks on the old fashioned radio they’d pilfered from the charity shop down the road while they eat. Their usual station plays comfortable morning tunes-- stuff that’s easy on the ears, crackling in the background without being obtrusive. Filling spaces within themselves that are still dusty, that aren’t ready to get picked up off the shelf yet. They’re getting there. It can wait.

But the music, and the wallpaper, and the giant sunflower sitting proud by the kitchen window all help. Organic reminders of things they fought and clawed for, pried back with bloody nails until they could snarl _this is ours_ and keep them.

A ripple of static announces the end of the current song; Barney barely registers it behind the scrape and clink of cutlery against ceramic. He’s so buried in his own thoughts, twisting vines creeping through the cracks in his brainpan, that he jumps out of his skin when Gordon abandons his breakfast to stand and offer Barney a hand.

“Doc?” The nickname rolls off Barney’s tongue, second nature after all this time. Confusion tiptoes around the edges.

Gordon rolls his eyes. “I like this song,” he withdraws his hand to sign. “Dance with me?”

_Oh._ Funny, how some of the smallest things fill his heart with a nuclear glow, igniting the spaces between his ribs. “Sure,” Barney says through the sudden lump in his throat. “That sounds great.”

Gordon’s fingers slot between his, an echo of earlier this morning, and peel him from his seat. His other hand settles behind Barney’s back; Barney takes the cue and drifts his free hand up to Gordon’s shoulder, bunching up the pale fabric.

“Gotta say,” Barney grins as Gordon begins to lead them in a tight circle, “I like your choice of black tie. Real chic.”

Gordon shoots him an unimpressed look.

“No, really,” Barney says, leaning into the bit as they continue their circuit, “the sweats bring out your eyes. And that top--” Barney pauses to whistle, ruining the effect when his lips wobble too much to keep shape. “Lookin’ _good,_ doc.”

Gordon’s silent bark of laughter shakes his shoulders so hard Barney almost loses his grip. The careful meter of their feet falls apart as Barney gives in as well, rib cage rattling, his own laugh bubbling up his throat and out his mouth to pour, bright and unabashed, into the space around them. Music floats in counterpart underneath, tickling the edges of his hearing, but what Barney focuses on is this: their hands tangled together, sunlight warming the floor beneath their feet, and Gordon’s neck tilted back, eyes scrunched shut, the shadow of his lashes brushing his cheeks.

Gordon unwinds their fingers long enough to flash him a sign-- middle and ring fingers curled against his palm, thumb sticking straight out. _“I love you.”_ Tender and sweet as honey.

“Me too, doc,” Barney says, shuffling closer until their chests touch. Until every breath he takes pushes up against Gordon’s, irrefutable proof that they’re here, they’re alive, and they’ve made it. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Go give Eevee and Bee a holler [here](https://eeveecat1248.tumblr.com/) and [here!!](https://cryptidflavored.tumblr.com/) and as always, feel free to come chat with me at [definitelynotshouting](https://definitelynotshouting.tumblr.com/) on tumblr<3


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